


I Wouldn't Call it Love

by Arati_Mhevet



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arati_Mhevet/pseuds/Arati_Mhevet
Summary: It's never too late, except when it is. After 'Sacrifice of Angels'.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	I Wouldn't Call it Love

**I Wouldn’t Call it Love**

***

“No, Garak,” said Odo, flatly.

“I wouldn’t stay long.”

“No.”

“Just a short interview…”

Garak watched as Odo withdrew more coffee from his mug. Why did he bother with this pretence? Weren’t they all past these charades, this late in the day? With his fork, Garak stabbed viciously at his _pritha_ eggs. “I won’t hurt him.”

“Garak,” Odo said firmly, “I would no more allow you access to Dukat than I would allow you access to my security files.”

In the past, Garak might have replied implying he already had such access, but this morning, for some reason, he could not find a single witticism within him, not even the slightest of quips. Why bother with all the pretence, this late in the day? Why had he ever bothered?

“He’s a sick man,” said Odo.

“No change there.”

“Garak,” and now the warning was clear, “keep out of this.”

Garak pushed away his plate. Perhaps resuming these breakfasts had been a mistake. Nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same. The days of genial comradeship on the station – telling himself that he was living among friends, pretending that this all counted as family, of a rather ragged and threadbare sort – were over. What came next was dissolution. Falling apart. Moving on. 

_B_ _ut I have nowhere else to go_.

“I am sorry,” said Odo, quietly, “about Ziyal.”

“So am I.”

Further discussion of this topic was mercifully, from Garak’s perspective at least, curtailed by the arrival of Kira, striding past on her way to Ops. Garak’s eyes flicked to Odo, who was staring down at the table. One conversation at the bar with Rom had supplied Garak with everything he needed to know about this unfortunate situation. Anyway, it wasn’t Odo she was here for.

“Garak,” she said. “Could you come see me later?”

He smiled brightly. “Am I in trouble, major?”

“Not today.”

“Then I should be more than happy to oblige. Shall I come to Ops? Or will you find me at the shop?”

“No. Come… come to my quarters. Twenty hundred? That okay?”

Her quarters? He had a sinking feeling he knew what this would be about, but he could hardly deny her request. “I am sure that will be fine.”

She nodded, briskly. Only then did she acknowledge Odo.

“Constable.”

“Major,” he said, but her back was already turned.

Garak wiped his mouth slowly. Odo’s face rarely gave anything away, but his eyes, watching her depart, were a wholly different matter. A veritable tapestry of regret, guilt, shame, despair. Garak, who knew how it felt to be offered admittance for the negligible price of one’s soul, looked on with muted compassion. At least Odo hadn’t tortured anyone. Just taken his eye off the ball long enough for Ziyal to end up dead.

Odo scowled at Garak. They exchanged one short but penetrating look: _Go on, say something, I dare you…_ And: _I think you’re being punished enough without my help…_ Then Garak put down his napkin and rose from his chair.

“Thank you for your company as ever, Odo,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I really should get started at the shop. Wedding clothes don’t make themselves, you know, and Worf is very exacting.”

* * *

Garak, hovering on Kira’s doorstep, shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Avoiding Kira had, over the years, been not so much habit as a survival strategy. True, he had come to the door of her quarters numerous times to collect Ziyal, but until now had never dreamed of entering.

“Garak. Right on time.”

Inside, the space was considerably more tasteful than he would’ve guessed, although, naturally, overwhelmingly Bajoran. It was also rather a mess.

“I’ve been clearing through her things,” she said, stepping back to let him through. “I thought there might be something you’d like…” She gestured round helplessly. “I don’t know what to do with everything.”

Garak looked at the heap of clothes on the couch with rising alarm. His experience of clearing up after death was, well, generally more visceral. He’d never sifted through what was left behind before – at least, not beyond what might be called perfunctory and instrumental searches. Mila, presumably, had done this for Tain. Had there been a will? There had been property, certainly, and money. Was there a fortune awaiting him, should he ever be let back across the border? No, there would be no such legacy. Only and ever Cardassia, and that was enough.

Kira, he realized dimly, was in some distress. “Her dresses.” she said. “What do I do with her dresses?”

_Rip them up, burn them, throw them away. But please – don’t ask me to take them._

"You did such beautiful work here, Garak. I mean, look at this!”

A plain grey dress, but around the cuffs and neck he had embroidered, in black and silver, entwining _mekla_. Yes, this was lovely. How neat his stitching was these days! He remembered working on that design. So many quiet companionable hours together in the shop; him sewing, Ziyal sketching. Gossiping about the other inhabitants of the station, naturally, but also talking about home. Telling her about places that he had known and loved, savouring the chance to recall them in a way that brought pleasure, not pain. Her halting admission of her unhappy time with her father’s family. So much left unsaid, but he knew exactly what she would have suffered – the sly jibes, the open contempt. Even now, thinking about this, his fists clenched. How very like Dukat, he thought, to create such an appalling mess, and leave others to mop up after.

He breathed, deeply. He thought, hard. “What about an orphanage, major? Like the one in Tozhat?”

Some of those children he’d met must be coming to the age of emergence now. On Cardassia, this would be marked with gifts, as they assumed the duties and obligations that would in time make them full members of their immediate families, and the greater family of the Cardassian people. Even Garak had received a few gifts at this age, albeit somewhat outweighed by the duties and obligations. 

Kira said, “She’d like that, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And you don’t mind?” she said. “You put so much work into these…”

“No,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Garak. That’s… that’s a relief.”

She helped him fold the clothes, gathering them together in a neat pile to be cleaned and sent on. They were redolent of her. Perhaps on Bajor some other lost child, some other castoff, would receive these gifts and those first steps into the wider world would be eased somehow. Perhaps, if he worked very hard, he could make some sense out of this senseless death. 

When they were done, Kira stood and stretched. “ _Raktajino_? I’ll get us a couple of _raktajinos_.” 

Before he knew what was happening, he was sitting at the dining table while Kira busied herself at the replicator. Sitting in Kira’s quarters while she made him a drink. One would not think such a thing possible, but Ziyal had this kind of effect on people. A pity she had to die for it to happen.

One of her sketchpads was on the table. He leafed through. What an eye she’d had, for detail, for personality. Like a tailor who knew where to adjust; an interrogator who knew when to push. Here she had sketched Kira, in their quarters, intent at her padd, hand through hair. Many of her father, capturing that repulsive but undeniable charisma, some almost verging on satire. Jake and Nog, at play. Several of Rom. Yes, he would have sat for her patiently. And, here he was himself, over and over. Working in the shop – strange to see his own face like that, both focused and at ease. He looked almost like a man he had once been. Reading in his quarters. Fast asleep in the holosuite sauna. And here… Well, this was a surprise. Bashir in full flight, hands waving, eyes bright and shining; him sitting and watching, head propped on hand, looking across the table with love and longing. So she _had_ seen. Of course she had. Not much got past her. She’d learned the hard way to be watchful. That was one of the things he’d liked about her.

He’d known about her plans for him, of course, and there were times he’d come close to surrender. At this late date, to be offered companionship, intimacy – might there even have been children? To be, at last, undeniably, a member of a family, to have that deep, unsatiated craving fulfilled… She understood a great deal too; what it meant to be cast out; the wear and tear of navigating the mercurial desires of a powerful father. Yes, he might easily have been worn down, given time. And the offence to both Kira and Dukat had naturally added significantly to the appeal.

Kira put a mug down next to him and sat down opposite.

“What will happen to her art?” he said, closing the book. 

“There’s a gallery in Ashalla,” she said. “Specializes in artists from of dual heritage. They’re very interested. But I’d like you to take one of the paintings. And maybe some sketches?”

“Yes,” he said gratefully. “I should like that.” 

“And…” She bit her lip. “I feel like there’s something else that should be done. To honour her Cardassian side. Some funeral ritual or other?”

He’d already been to the holosuite. Dried the flowers; cut his hand; said the words; chanted her name. “Consider it done.”

“And something of hers should go back there. Something should be buried there.” She flushed. “They shouldn't take that away from her.”

The petals of the _perek_ flowers, yes. That, at least.

“I don’t know…” She looked at him, hopefully. “Do you have any idea? Could it be done?”

“Oh major,” he said, heavily. “I can’t make that promise.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t suppose you can.” She reached for the sketchbook and looked through. “What will you do, Garak, if the station falls again?”

He curled his hands around the mug and watched the steam rise. Questions like this caused him many sleepless nights. He’d made himself useful over the past few months, or so he hoped, and he supposed he must continue making himself useful. That, and equip himself with information that might be used for blackmail. It was unwise, in Garak’s experience, to rely upon the kindliness of strangers.

“I could put out feelers with the Council of Ministers,” she said, uneasily. “Have a quiet word with Shakaar…”

“Major, I appreciate the generosity of your offer, but you and I both know that such a request on my part would be grossly inappropriate.” An obscenity, in fact. Garak himself remembered only half of what he done on Bajor. Kira would have more than a general idea.

“But what will you do?” she pressed. 

“Throw myself on the mercy of Starfleet again, I imagine. I’m sure they’ll find a use for me.” He cleared his throat. “I might make a more formal request for asylum. I did leave things rather late last time round.” Pacing the station, caught between pride and fear, hoping inspiration would strike before having to go begging to Sisko. To Sisko, of all people… Worrying about Ziyal, and how she was being received. His last sight of her, alive, boarding that shuttle. _Never underestimate my gift for survival…_

If whatever was coming could indeed be survived. Yes, he might fall under Starfleet’s protection; yes, he might come through this war intact, find a safe haven – Earth, perhaps, that would be fine punishment for his sins – but what about Cardassia? What about home? _Cardassia is dead_ , the Changeling had said to him. Garak had many regrets, but allowing that ill-fated mission of Tain’s was the bitterest. If only he’d been back at Tain’s side sooner. If only he had been involved in the plans. He’d trusted to Tain’s genius. He was starting to think that the genius had been his.

_Your people were doomed the moment they attacked us…_

Garak stirred himself. Across the table, Kira was smiling. “You never know, you might end up a Federation citizen.”

“I might indeed.” He shuddered. “Everyone needs a bolthole.”

A place to curl up and die.

* * *

Afterwards, Garak went back to the shop. It was getting late, but the wedding was coming, and Worf had a fitting the following day. There was a lot to do, and late evening he was less likely to be disturbed. He tucked the painting and the sketches safely under his bench, and set to work tacking the jacket. For a while his thoughts raced from place to place – Kira, Ziyal, Dukat, Odo – settling, as they always did, upon Cardassia, and Julian, and longing. Eventually the steady rhythm of work displaced even these, and his mind came to rest in the present, and the pleasure of a job well done.

The tap at the door was therefore something of an irritant, but he put on a smile. Rom sometimes dropped by late at night, if he’d seen the light on, and bearing snacks.

It was Odo, and while he brought no food, he did bring news. “I thought you’d like to know that Dukat has gone.”

“Oh yes? May I ask where to?”

“A hospital. Specialist care.”

“Specialist care?” Garak rolled his eyes. “You mean therapy. It won’t stick, you know. Speaking as one who has endured Federation counselling on several occasions.”

“I know that.”

“He’ll be back to doing what he does best before you can say ‘former Cardassian oppressor’. We’re very resilient, you know. We invariably bounce back.”

“And I thought that was just you.”

Garak walked back to his bench and stared down at the wedding jacket. Concentration gone now, of course. He’d be here for hours yet. “All I wanted, Odo, was to talk to him.”

“What you wanted, Garak, was to interrogate him.”

“And where would be the harm in that?” There might have been something in there of use; some insight into the Founder’s mind and plans; something that might save Cardassia. These _people_ he was forced to live among! These _scruples_! Did they not understand their peril? Did they not understand how merciless these enemies were? That they would not stop until all that was solid was ash?

“He was a sick man,” said Odo, who did know. “I couldn’t allow it.”

Garak placed his palms flat upon the bench. “You’ve been among Starfleet too long.”

“The same might be said about you.”

“Oh Odo,” Garak sighed. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

Odo reached out to touch the jerkin. Garak rapped him sharply on the knuckles. “Don’t. That velvet spoils almost on sight, and I am _not_ going through all this again.”

“Are you really going to put Worf in this?”

“For once in my life,” said Garak. “I am entirely blameless. I merely stitch the pieces together and make sure the wretched thing fits.” Very much like working for Tain. 

“Only following orders, eh?”

“The rent must be paid.”

Now Odo was playing with the buttons in the tray. People always did this. Seemed to think his workplace was a toyshop. Rummaged like children. “Do be careful—”

“Did you see the major?”

“Yes. And no, we didn’t talk about you, and, additionally, what we did talk about is none of your business.”

“Hmm,” said Odo.

“Odo, _do_ leave those alone—”

“Would you like to meet for breakfast tomorrow?”

Outcast to outcast; penitent to penitent? There was nothing in Odo’s voice, of course, and little in his eyes. But Garak was good at detaching people from their secrets. “Yes,” he said. “I should like that very much.”

Odo grunted, and turned to go. Before the door opened, Garak called after him. “Whatever you have to say to the major, I’d advise you do it soon. Before it’s too late.”

“Why ever would you imagine that I should want your advice?”

_Because we have made many of the same mistakes? Because I know about regret? About guilt, and shame, and despair? Because every time I look at you, I am sorry for the agony I caused? Because Ziyal died on your watch?_

Garak held out his hands and gestured around his kingdom, his living. “Because it’s all I have to give.”

* * *

On Prime, after the Fire had taken more or less everything and everyone, they dug a hole in the ashes and put the petals there. “I’m sorry,” Garak said – although for what, exactly, he was not sure. For the war; for the lack of hospitality on offer; perhaps even, at this late date, for the Occupation.

Kira sat down on the ground beside him, looked at the ruins, and tried to imagine what the future might hold.

“So am I.”

* * *

_21 st November 2020_


End file.
